With A Little Help From My Friends
by coffeebuddha
Summary: Getting drunk usually isn't the answer, but that doesn't mean it'll hurt. onesided Morgan/Reid, onesided Hotch/Garcia


Derek braces his elbows against the top of the bar, a beer bottle dangling loosely from between his intertwined fingers. It's a nice, almost peaceful evening-or as peaceful as you can get in a bar-and Hotch looks uncharacteristically relaxed on the stool next to him, loosened by alcohol and a solid month without having to work a case involving a kid.

Clearly, that can't be allowed to continue, so Derek takes another swig and proceeds to fuck things up by saying, "I think Reid might be a little in love with you. In gay love with you. Reid is in gay love with you."

He isn't whining about it, because Derek is a manly man, a guy's guy, and that means he doesn't act like a preteen girl who just found out that her crush is in _like _like with her best friend instead of her. If his voice sounds a little petulant-only a little!-then there are half a dozen beer bottles and a couple empty shot glasses that he can blame that on.

Hotch takes the news like a champ, only briefly pausing in lifting his beer to his mouth and grunting out a short, almost nonchalant, "Huh."

Derek kind of wants to punch him in the face. It would be a bad career move, but he thinks it might be worth it to feel the crunch of his nose breaking under his fist. He drains his beer, and absolutely does not look sadly down at the empty bottle and say, "I wish he was in gay love with me," in a sad, pathetic little voice. Hotch pats him awkwardly on the shoulder, half missing a couple times because apparently all it takes is a couple beers and an ill advised Slippery Nipple to make Hotch lose his depth perception.

"At least he has good taste," Hotch says, which is pretty much the exact opposite of helping, and punching is looking like a better option all the time.

"Not helping," Derek points out, just in case Hotch hasn't noticed that he's not acting in an appropriately commiserating manner here. They're outside of work and Hotch should be acting like a bro, and he is _not a very good bro_.

"It could be worse," Hotch continues, like he didn't hear what Derek said. "He could always be in love with someone who wears paisley. Who wears paisley and _bad ties_."

Hotch somehow manages to make bad ties sound at least as offensive as being a serial killer.

_That's gotta take talent_, Derek thinks. Then what he actually said sinks in a little more and Derek thinks, _Wait, what?_

"Wait, what?" Derek asks, and Hotch does a weird pantomime at the bartender that must mean 'we need more to drink', because then there are new bottles of beer in front of them, cool beads of condensation sliding down the sides. Derek's distracted for a moment by sucking down a mouthful, but Hotch isn't going to get off that easily, so Derek absolutely has to ask, "Paisley?"

"And bad ties," Hotch says mournfully. "I don't get what she sees in him. I mean, other than that they're pretty much perfect for each other."

And, okay, Derek hadn't seen that coming and this is getting disturbingly close to sharing, talking about _feelings_ territory, which is a little too gay for him to handle, and he wants to do things like rip Reid's adorably nerdy sweater vests off of him and lick him like a lollipop. He pats Hotch on the shoulder, and _he_ doesn't miss, because, unlike Hotch, Derek is a master of drunken coordination, and says, "Man. That sucks."

"Yep," Hotch says and sips at his beer.

They drink together for a few more minutes in silence, their shared misery hanging over their corner of the bar like a cloud so that the other patrons skirt around them with cautious glances. After a while though, Derek blinks and looks up and asks, "So, wait, just to clarify. That means you don't want to get into Reid's pants, right?"

Hotch just glares at him and mutters under his breath something about how next time he's just going to drink alone in his living room in the dark.

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